


Quote-Inspired Fics + Ficlets - #6

by DovahDoes



Series: Quote-Inspired Fics (& Ficlets) [6]
Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, Except this is kinda, Gen, Hoyt is only there by way of a convo over radio, I FINALLY got Jason and Vaas in the same room in a Vaason fic!, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It's not quite a meet-cute, Oops, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use, but for this series it kinda is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: Sixth in the series of Quote Challenge responses.*Somebody hasgotto explain to Jason the value of a gas mask when destroying large swathes of drug crops by way of fire.ORThe meet-cute thatwayprecedesthat other fic I wrotewhere Jason kinda beats the shit out of Vaas (and then stops because of Reasons).(Slight AU, as per the Vaason relationship that later develops and the tweaking of several events.)





	Quote-Inspired Fics + Ficlets - #6

**Author's Note:**

> So I post a _lot_ of quotes on my FC3 tumblr, and I thought that it might be a good exercise/learning experience for me to use them as inspiration for some fics and ficlets.
> 
> Hence, this little series~.  
> 

_**"Everything’s a risk**.   **Not doing anything is a risk.  It’s up to you.” - Nicola Yoon**_

 

 ___________

 

It’s all going very well, this whole _flammenwerfer_ -drug-crop-destruction, kamikaze-style mission thing.  Except for the part where this most recent patch of very green and pointy-fronded vegetation not only looks kind of peculiar, but also smells quite a bit different than the usual kind of Rook skunkweed that he’s been setting afire for the past half-dozen minutes.

 

The leaves look kind of… droopy?  Maybe?  Or is that more how everything _feels_?  Shit.  Fuck fuck fuck—  he knows all about contact highs (thank you very much, dropping off and picking up a vehicle-deficient Ollie from work for 2 long weeks, several years ago), but god _damn_ this is something else entirely.

 

Blinking feels like it takes an eon, and when he looks down, the flamethrower is held loosely in one hand, its long, anteater-nose fuel tube and nozzle dragging in the sooty, rich soil beneath him.  With a very slow jolt, Jason realizes that, hey, he’d just been in the middle of an action-packed firefight with a number of armed privateers and mercenaries over the survival of the very same field of drug crops, only, maybe, a minute ago.  He intends to bring the flamethrower back up, or to maybe use the semi-automatic handgun that he has been favouring, as of late, but instead he catches sight of those very same heavily armed combatants slumped over in various positions right where they’d been standing.  Even the vicious guard dogs seem to have just keeled over wherever they had been making all their usual racket, just a bit earlier.

 

“Hah ha… h-hah. The… the fucking _dogs_.”  Jason wheezes out, having a bit of trouble not only laughing, but also speaking when the wind switches direction and carries a fresh cloud of blackish (but oddly sweet-scented) smoke from the strange plants straight to him.

 

“Those guys … th‘se guys don’t.  Don’t even have a— h’ve a.  Dog in this fight, now,” he slurs to himself, almost sub-vocally.  (Unfunny snarking has become a huge facet of his Rook experience, so far, for some reason, especially when in mortal peril.)

 

He is not sure when he got to ground level, but it’s a lot cooler and far less smoky down here, so he settles in and closes his eyes, quite ready for a bit of a doze.  The fact that his respiration has slowed immensely— dangerously, really— while his eyes begin to roll back in their sockets is unknown to the young man lying prostrate only a few dozen yards away from a very new, _very_ covertly planted thatch of experimental crops that flames are slowly consuming.

 

More importantly, he completely misses the disruptive roar of an engine approach rapidly before abruptly cutting off a good distance further up the incline on which he rests in a state somewhere between incredibly stoned and unconscious.  He also has no real comprehension of a figure loping down the hill and sliding to a stop above him, an assault rifle deftly held aloft and at the ready to release torrents of deadly ammo at any second.

 

The completely insensate young man does not rouse at the impact of increasingly sharp pats of a hand against his cheek, and most certainly misses the slate of frantic, distressed invectives that follow.

 

___________

 

In any case, an obscure amount of time later, Jason sluggishly awakes in rather a weird, sort of parallel situation of his initial meet-cute interaction with Dennis in Amanaki Village:  this time, too, he is utterly unfamiliar with his surroundings (or even whose bed it is he is in).  He also, again, has that same foreboding feeling he had back then, except… it’s not quite so intense this go around?

 

A few more seconds of lying there, listlessly pondering his existence, and he begins to take account of the environment by way of the full gamut of his senses: his palate is the perhaps the driest it may ever have been in his entire life— to the point that even trying to muster enough saliva to maybe lubricate his parched throat is an evident impossibility.  Also, this problem is almost definitely exacerbated by the _fucking gag in his mouth_.  (If he is even still on Rook, Jason feels lucky that it’s only what seems to be a simple strip of fabric tied around the back of his head and not a fucking ball-gag or something equally weird— who knows what kind of freaks inhabit this strange, hellish island.)

 

He is able to uncouple his sense of hearing from the slothful plodding of his heart that reverberates through his skull, as well as the susurrate sound of his breaths whistling through his nose, just in time to tune in to a fairly loud exchange.

 

Underwater-muffled voices clarify enough for Jason to make out the typical bombastic speech style of one Vaas Montenegro, and the somewhat tinny and warped— but increasingly irate— tones of another oddly accented voice in counterpoint.  (The other guy sounds like he’s…. Australian?  Maybe?  But not _quite_.)  In any case, he latches on to a few key words in the exchange, and soon realizes _he_ is the subject of the conversation being held.

 

“… about Snow White?”

 

“You know what?” Vaas replies to some unknown query, almost aggressively nonchalant, “I do not give a _fuck_ about him.  I don’t give a _fuck_.”

 

His vision has been sporadically sharpening from a desaturated mélange of murky-looking shapes, and it begins to crystallize, at last, damnably bright sunlight and all.  Jason squints reflexively to filter out the majority of his photosensitivity-aggravating surroundings, able to focus more on what he is hearing as a result.

 

“Mm. Really?  Then why am I here?” the guy— who he’s pretty sure _must_ be Hoyt Volker— retorts, ire climbing ever higher with each bitten off word.

 

Vaas, though, is seemingly inept at recognizing that he is treading along an infinitesimally thin line with his employer, and apparently needs to finish his earlier line of thought, even taking on a slightly placating tone that seems meant to bring the other man around to his point of view.

 

“Once you’ve got the ransom money, his friends are gonna be sold like _that_.  I shot his older brother.”  Jason’s stomach drops and without the benefit of all his mental faculties, he actually feels _grief_ instead of the useful, helpfully blinding anger he usually does when thinking about his eldest sibling.  Vaas continues his insistent appeal, unconcernedly, booted feet kicked up onto the same table on which the sizable radio base station… machine thing sits.

 

“I did what you wanted with his younger brother.”  Blue-green eyes snap open at that carelessly revealed bit of tantalizing information, training themselves on the electric green ones that have already been gazing knowingly at his expression.  He ponders, briefly, making some kind of demanding noise, but even in his molasses-slow assessment of the situation, the idea is obviously a bad one.

“It’s my _sister_ ,” he hisses, venomously, losing any tenuous hold on his façade of tranquility, “she’s _inking_ that white boy—“

 

What?  Why the _fuck_ is this guy so fucking concerned about his tatau?  And his sister?  Is this some Flowers in the Attic shit?  In any case, before the confused male can do much besides furrow his brows, probably-Hoyt cuts in, now _really_ in a good lather.

 

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about your family!”  Yikes, this definitely sounds like maybe it’s an old conversation topic.  Or is this guy really _that_ much of a dick to what’s gotta be one of his more prominent— if obnoxious— employees?

 

“It is by _my_ grace that your head isn’t impaled on the _antenna_ of my car!”  Well, shit.  That seems like a lot to do.  This is _definitely_ a rehashed argument, then.  “ _Therefore_ , I would _like it_ if you _gave a fuck_ about Jason Brody!  Losing that much product in one day is _unprecedented_ , not to mention _unacceptable_!  We lost the _entire_ field of that new cannabis variant we’re working on— do I need to incentivize you with the threat of that very same _domkop_ burning down the _other_ crops that _you_ specifically like, for you to actually _do something_ about him?”

 

At that pronouncement, Jason tenses up as much as his drug-lax muscles will let him, his blood running cold in preparation for Vaas’ imminent pronouncement of his capture of ‘Snow White’.   Any second now, the crowing over his _amazing_ bounty will begin— he is sure of it.

 

Except that it _doesn’t_ begin.  In point of fact, save for a feigned sort of defeated tone when he replies, the pirate, who is _still_ directing an enigmatically smug smile his way, doesn’t do a thing to acknowledge Jason’s presence.

 

“Okay, Hoyt.  Okay.  Alright.”  So it _is_ the same Hoyt guy both Willis and Dennis have told him about, on the other line. “I did stop by to see what exactly was going on over there— you know, besides the inevitable result of vastly inconsistent training in new hires.”

 

At the lack of any real response, aggravated or otherwise, the slightly-less-manic-than-usual Rook native continues, convincingly lying straight to his boss’ face.  Or voice.  Or whatever.

 

“Anyway, by the time I got there— which was pretty fucking quick, by the way— the Brody boy had skipped town.  Must have been chased off when backup forces started arriving— now _those_ guys are fucking well-trained— why not just put _them_ everywhere?  Like making a plane out of the black box, you know?”

 

“Vaas…” growls the completely unamused voice on the other end of the transmission.

 

“Right.  So, yeah.  Tried to track the little Rambo wannabe, but he must have had some of those new friends of his waiting around, nearby, or something.”

 

“Hah!” Hoyt chortles, darkly, “All you fucking islanders are remarkably adept at that.  Living like animals in the middle of the jungle for your whole life will do that, I suppose, huh?”

 

Neither noticing nor caring about his lieutenant’s literal radio silence (and most definitely unable to see his features shift to a decidedly resentful moue), Volker abruptly jumps to some other line of thought, something about… Bear Town, maybe?  The discussion and its changing subject soon drifts away from him, with no obviously compelling reason to follow along, anymore.

 

Now that his sea-floor slow thoughts are ambling in a certain direction, he wonders, briefly, about exactly what sort of ‘experimental crops’ he must have gotten into and (hopefully) destroyed.  And then, much like some strange, cimmerian creature moving along those heavy, deep-down currents in the ocean, the thought slips inexorably away.

 

___________

 

His eyes flutter open, again, what he thinks must be moments later, and feeling a bit more clear-headed than just now, he watches as Vaas mutters some semblance of a signoff and places the mic back in its designated cradle, which is built into the rather monstrous device taking up much of the space on the desk.

 

The previous task finished, he flips some arbitrary switch into the adverse position and then spins around to face Jason, fully, regarding him with preternaturally perceptive, lucent jade eyes.  ( _Jaded_ eyes, to revise the thought.)  A smoking stub of something that is definitely _not_ a cigarette sits in a tray to one side, and its pungent, familiar scent starts to permeate every particle of air he laboriously inhales, now that his olfactory sense is returning. 

 

And Vaas is watching, more bemused and less searchingly or seriously or what-have-you, with every passing second. 

 

“Hey hermano, my eyes are up here.” he wisecracks, smile growing larger, indolent as a glacier’s migration.  “Or maybe, based on your eye level, _this_ is what you’re zoning out looking at, hm?”

 

A sun-kissed arm waves casually over the apex of strong thighs, as though presenting his fucking crotch as the grand prize on some daytime gameshow.

 

Hating himself for it, Jason is so thoroughly taken aback that he can immediately feel a traitorous rush of heat warm his cheeks.  (Perhaps worse, though, is that his eyes instinctively follow the path of Vaas’ sweeping gesture, leaving his gaze to linger for maybe a moment too long on the exact way the worn fabric of the other man’s pants fits over his package and _Jesus_ what the fuck is he _on_ right now?)

 

Defiant irritation sweeps through him, and almost as quickly as they had dipped down, his eyes snap back up to observe the approach of the only other person in the room in a more distinctly platonic/wary and _non_ -crotch-focused way.

 

There is a wave of temperate, hazy air that swirls over his face as Vaas kneels next to his prostrate body, proprietarily wrapping dry, seemingly arbitrarily-bandaged fingers around Jason’s left wrist in a steady, but not painful grip.  Instantly, he begins grumbling at this most recent of curious of behaviours that his ‘enemy’ of sorts has chosen to exhibit.

 

His wildly out of character captor seems set on ignoring him, though, eyes instead tracking something high up in the far corner of the room.  He even gets fucking _shushed_ , which only slightly tamps down on his fabric-muffled complaints.

 

A minute or so later, the pressure on his wrist is released, the uniformly pale skin there tingling slightly (100% as a result of some sort of thing with his circulation, of course), and he can feel his extremities— hands included— starting to actually react to his commands, at last, if only intermittently.

 

Unhelpfully, his chemically suppressed, sluggish heartrate trips over itself in an attempt to rocket up into an adrenaline-fueled pace when he catches the glint of polished metal out of the corner of his eye.  A fucking _knife_.  Where the hell did it even come from?

 

Holy shit— this is it.  This is fucking _it_ , now— he _knew it_.  He’s been kidnapped by this asshole and is about to end up choking to death on his own blood in the middle of who-knows-where on this goddamn island.   _Shit_ — what about Riley and Lisa and everyone else? Who’d res-

 

His thoughts grind to a halt and white-hot panic condenses into one moment of all-encompassing fear; his head throbs with the stress of it all, his breath all but trapped in his chest.  Almost before he realizes it’s happened, the line of cloth resting over his left cheek is lifted away from where it cuts into vulnerable, stubbled flesh, and with the unique sound of metal parting material, said fabric lies suddenly lax.

 

When the entirety of his gag is summarily pulled away, Jason is left panting, open-mouthed, for air for a split-second, his lips having parted in surprise at the sensation of the saliva-soaked cotton strip being whipped away so suddenly.

 

“Geez, Jason,” a wontedly grating voice gripes, prompting him to open his eyes and stare, wide-eyed at a hand being wiped off on worn canvas pants, “Anybody ever tell you that drooling is a disgusting habit?”

 

“Hey, what the _fuck_ , Montenegro?” he fairly spits out, pointedly ignoring that his speech is maybe a bit slurred and not quite as loud as he’d intended.

 

Vaas looks up, his expression finally regaining a modicum of the usual fiery scorn that Jason expects to see levelled at his person.  He does _not_ expect Vaas to hook his same, semi-plush chair from earlier with a foot and drag it to the middle of the room before taking a seat, gazing imperiously (and perhaps a bit pityingly) at him all the while.

 

“The _fuck_ , Jason,” he begins, “is that _I_ saved your half-dead, lily white ass from fucking _suffocating_ on shitty air and fucking _dirt_ in that field, two days ago.”

 

“That can’t— _what_?” he sputters.

 

“Exactamente, amigo; what your bumbling, pyromanic ass stumbled onto is some top-secret shit that even _I_ barely know about.  I bet you’ve been checking some of those computers you come across in outposts, so I _know_ you’ve read about some of my employer’s forays into new narcotics to put out to the 'market'.

 

Those plants you burned?  That smoke you inhaled?  Yeah, that shit is the first successful harvest of a _super_ nasty lovechild between a not-so-distant cousin of cannabis and a well-known substance that the UN banned from even _existing_ , anywhere.  The weed part?  Not so bad, as you probably know I can attest to— and lord _knows_ you white boys like your _reefer_ , or whatever the fuck.”

 

Vaas’ eyebrows lower into a fairly menacing position.

 

“The part where you breathed in a fucking toxic chemical nerve agent?  No bueno, Jason.  I’m not gonna give you the lowdown on how lucky you were to have been a decent distance away, or how your heart was beating so slowly when I found you, that I thought you were already fucking _dead_.  _Christ_ , Jason.

 

I’ve been doing a _lot_ more than just recreational substances for quite a while, and this shit could’ve knocked _me_ flat on my ass, too.”

 

Here, the other man wipes a hand over the entirety of his face, expression aggrieved for a moment, leaving Jason to feel…. almost embarrassed?  Like he’s put someone at an imposition by asking for extra bedsheets or towels or something when staying at their house.

 

“What I _will_ say,” Vaas continues, a mischievous twinkle belying his still somewhat grim visage, ”is that I was _very_ glad to see that you do seem to be washing your undies at least semi-regularly; that or the shopkeepers stopped giving you the tourist price for a pack of Hanes.”

 

Jason only just barely keeps his mouth from gaping open, again.  His companion doesn’t seem to much care.

 

“I mean.  S’why I usually go without.  You know, not into my junk being all cramped up and boxed in and shit.”  Unselfconsciously, he scratches at his aforementioned…. ‘junk’.

 

Jason closes his eyes and takes in a cleansing, deep lungful of air, releasing it through his nose, pointedly _not_ thinking about how or why exactly he’d been stripped down to his underwear (or the fact that the only other person in the room is probably _not_ wearing underwear), the steadily recovering young man instead takes stock of his now viciously tingling extremities, flexing first tremulous fists, and then half-numb feet.

 

“Anyways, you look a lot better, at least.  Not doing the whole drooling uncontrollably thing or the not-breathing-sometimes thing, and thank _god_ you didn’t shit yourself, hermano.  Hospitality only extends so far.  So.  Let’s talk for real, hm?”

 

With his gag having been removed, and his body slowly moving back under his purview, Jason feels a curious lack of any immediate need to escape and/or violently murder Vaas.  Perhaps this is a byproduct of whatever substance(s) are still milling around in his bloodstream or nervous system or whatever.  He figures he may as well ride out this crazy train and see where the day takes him.  (At worst, maybe he’ll wake up in the cave by Dr. Earnhardt’s house, again, having popped another one of the Really Good Pills, or perhaps a far more potent mushroom than he’s had, recently.)

 

Vaas scoots even _closer_ , the slightly uneven legs of his seat making a gritty sort of squeak as they slide along the ground, and once he is ‘close enough’, he settles in and makes himself comfortable, spreading out and filling his bubble of space fully.

 

When he leans forward, one elbow braced on his knee, and the palm of his other hand resting atop the other knee, Jason is eerily reminded of a moment he’d experienced not so long ago.   Without several of his ever-present accoutrements (the leather bands crossing over his chest, his belt with attached suspenders), and with his hair seemingly free of whatever product usually keeps it partly suspended, there is an undeniable resemblance to his sister.

 

The parallel encounter is nearly tangible: if he squints just right, he can almost see Citra’s face and body superimposed over Vaas’.  Or again, maybe it’s the drugs…  And speaking of this sibling-similarity stuff, why don’t they sound the same when they talk?  As alarmingly oblivious as he can admittedly be, he can note more than a few differences in how their voices lilt and peak and curl around certain syllables and vowels.  What the hell is _that_ about, even?

 

Okay, yeah.  He’s _definitely_ still a bit high.

 

Luckily, the percussive snap of fingers jerks him out of his meandering little reverie and he refocuses on his jailor.  (Or is that savior?)  His eyes zero in on the bright, verdant ones across from him as the other man leans forward a fraction more, the vivid gaze equally capable of forcibly demanding his attention as his sister’s.

 

“Why are you here?”

And _what the fuck_?  Do all the people here talk to each other to coordinate this shit?  Is this all part of some weird, CIA-funded experiment investigating the intersection of déjà vu and gas lighting?  Does the universe _enjoy_ doing this shit to him?

 

 _Verbatim_ , that is the _exact_ same question Citra asked him when they had first met.  _How_ is it possible that—

 

“Yo.  Hel- _loooo_ , Jason.  Holaaa.” Vaas, again, halts his easily derailed train of thought.  “Huh.  Maybe you’re still a bit too fucked up to talk, hm?” 

 

Shaking his head and clucking his tongue in disappointment, he moves to stand up.

 

“ _Wait_!  Wait…. just.  Wait a minute.   _Jesus_.”  Jason tries to get his brain back in gear so he can calm his chaotic, tumultuous thought process.

 

The other male relaxes again, and ‘the look’ is back, even as he elaborates further.

 

“Hey, listen.  I’m not looking for a philosophical fucking manifesto, here.  Just literally asking the question like I said it; it’s up to _you_ to decide how much or how deep you want to get, eh?”

 

Jason licks his lips and clenches his fists, feeling the pins and needles running up and down his limbs begin to abate, at last.  (In a few minutes, he’ll hopefully be moving around pretty much normally, again, if a bit inelegantly.)

 

“I… I just wanna get all my friends out of here and back home.  That’s— that’s about it.”

 

Throughout his statement, Vaas actually appears to be patiently listening, even raising his eyebrow at the last phrase in particular, clearly dubious about one point, and having no compunction at raising said issue.

 

“Uh huh.  So.  You aren’t out here gunning for my head, too?  After what I did to your brother, hm Jason?”

 

Boiling, white hot rage flashes through his body with thrice the strength of any purpose-built syringe’s cocktail of stimulants, and very much like a wildfire, soon burns itself out, leaving a charred wasteland behind.  One that might now be rife with empty space that has been primed for fresh umbrage.

 

With a haggard exhalation, he closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

 

“I… I don’t know.  Yeah?  I mean, it feels like I’m being pulled in about fifteen different directions— and that’s definitely one of them.  But _everybody_ here’s got something to lose, and has already lost so much, you know?”  Fulgent light filters through his lashes as shuttered eyelids slowly lift.  “And it’s like… somehow, I end up taking on every other cause to try and further my own, and it gets _harder_ and _harder_ to make my way through all the mess of who needs what and how badly and even _why_ , and all that.”

 

“Fuck, I don’t even know precisely _what_ I’m feeling— if anything— at any given moment,” he confesses, one step away from what feels a lot like either a scream from somewhere way deep down, or maybe a sob. “It’s just so much easier to _do_ , you know?  To, to break and destroy and burn and _kill_ , and then attribute it to a goal— whichever one fits best— after the fact.”

 

He raises a leaden arm to cover his face, suddenly feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, which is helpfully accompanied by the onset of some fairly brutal waves of embarrassment.  (He can only hope his face hasn’t reddened in reaction, as it is wont to do, more often than he’d prefer.)  What in the _fuck_ is he doing waxing fucking pathetic in front of his apparent arch-nemesis?

 

Christ.

 

 _This_ _is your brain on drugs_ , indeed.

 

“So,” comes the voice from his left, its source undoubtedly still poised like some heretical, ‘alternative’ psychiatrist in his dilapidated, graffitied chair, “basically, you got the Rakyat Whammy.”

 

Jason allows his forearm to slip upward, and the assistance of gravity leaves it lying comfortably, just above his head, resting against hair that is still a bit gritty from the past thirty-something hours of firefights, jungle-trekking, and crop-burning.

 

“The _what_?” He questions, completely bereft.

 

Vaas sighs a bit, through his nose, and throws one arm to his side to shift his body and rest on it, now crooked in the armchair, but still exactly as engaged in the discussion.

 

“The Rakyat Whammy.  It’s a bit like all those weird cult indoctrination things?  But with maybe a bit more of the individualized, ah, brain-seduction part.

 

Okay, so let me guess: Dennis was the first to talk to you and shook your hand, showed you some simply _amazing_ , warm little village?  Quaint and admirable, but _just_ a bit pitiable, all the same?  Based on the timing of everything, recently…. probably Amanaki.

 

Then, he heard your sob story and told you there was hope and that they could help?  Or rather, 'empower' you?  Right?

 

Probably threw in a good amount of demonizing me, to keep it all consistent.  (S’not hard to do, admittedly.)”

 

All of a sudden, Vaas snaps his fingers and lights up a bit, enthusedly barreling toward some specific conclusion he clearly has in sight.

 

“Oh!  And probably mentioned that they could train you in _Their Ways_ , and that if you helped them, they would help you get X and/or Y.  The operative phrase, there, is the ‘helping _them_ ’, section, by the way.”

 

Jason can feel that his mouth is open a little bit, and now remains unsure if he’d been about to say something, or if it had dropped open in reaction to the astonishingly poignant analysis of pretty much every interaction he’s had with the Rakyat, thus far.

 

“Uh.  Actually.  _Yeah_.  That’s, uh.  That’s pretty much it in a nutshell…”

 

“Hn.  Of course, if you do well enough, she’d probably fuck you, too— _especially_ with you having that tatau.  Now _that_ strays from the usual— the tatau I mean.  I guess the fucking _does_ help with loyalty, though, so…”

 

Jason makes use of the returning strength in his now decreasingly affected muscles and arduously drags himself into a seated position, leaning against the wall to his back.  His head is absolutely _whirling_ , trying to keep up with the roller coaster of a conversation (and from coping with at least a small bout of vertigo, now, too).

 

“Alright, wait a minute, what the fuck _is_ all this?  What do _you_ want from me?  As in, where is this all leading, right now?  Because if _anyone’s_ got a vendetta against anyone, it’s definitely the guy who gave someone a ‘head start’ into an unimaginably dangerous, notoriously deadly jungle _which_ was _also_ flooded with armed pirates determined— _and under order_ —  to murder him!”

 

Another set of aggravating chuckles escapes the frustratingly insouciant, smirking man before him, who looks to be just about as jovial as he has been since he’d ended the earlier radio transmission.

 

“Oh, Jason, Jason, Jason.  Always _so_ short-sighted, hm?  ‘Can’t see the forest for the trees’ and all that,” he says, musingly, settling down to pin the thrice-named man with another disconcertingly intense look.  “What if… I told you that I can definitely facilitate the safe retrieval of _each.  And.  Every.  One._   Of your friends, on this island?”

 

Completely caught off-guard by the entirety of what he only half-believes he’s heard, the semi-lethargic brunet furrows his brow and regards his companion with perplexed eyes.

 

“… _what_?”

 

Vaas, to his credit does not so much as roll his eyes before repeating himself with slightly different wording.

 

“ _I_ am gonna help _you_ save all your little amigos, hermano.  I mean— if you’re still interested, anyway.”

 

“No— I k _now_ what you said.  I’m just— I don’t understand-“

 

“Much of anything?” Vaas interrupts him, matter of fact-ly.  “Yeah.  Pretty much everyone’s fucking noticed, cabron.”

 

“Fu— hey!” Jason struggles to push himself up and forward enough to hopefully boost the intimidation factor he certainly _does not_ have going for him while still he’s half-slumped over.

 

The pirate’s eyebrows twitch upward, briefly, in their typical, irritatingly bemused fashion before he lightly placates the overly tetchy man, who is making an effort to— what, _fight_ him?— in his drug-weakened state.

 

“ _Jesus_ , Jason— _cálmate_.  Can’t take a little bit of criticism?  Shit.”

 

This only seems to further incense the oldest (living) Brody brother, who propels himself forward, finally, and thus promptly pitches sideways off of the bed, having not swung his legs over far enough to provide himself proper balance.  The uncomfortable swooping feeling that comes with an unexpected tumble is offset by cool, calloused fingers that clamp with bruising force into his biceps, easily maneuvering his listing body back into a more tenable, upright position against the wall.

 

More accurately, he is borne backward against the surface hard enough to make an audible thud when both his back and his head make impact.

 

“I _said_ fucking **calm down** , Jason,” Vaas bites out, palms flat against the wall, looming above his quarry, intimidatingly muscled arms bracketing in the slightly younger man.  From this angle, his jade green eyes seem to almost glow in the slanted beams of afternoon sun, a font of simmering irritation visible in their verdant depths.

 

Blinking several times to clear both the spots from his vision and the strange thoughts swirling around in his head, Jason averts his gaze, but still observes the other man withdraw and reseat himself, huffing when he retakes his place in the worn armchair.

 

“ _You_ , hermano, need to learn to fucking _listen_ and not just _react_.  I am _trying_ to— to offer an olive branch, here, against most of my better fucking judgement.  _Alright_?”

 

Cautiously, now aware that he really does _not_ have any true semblance of the upper hand, there, Jason nods and replies in an even tone.

 

“…alright.”

 

As mercurial as ever, Vaas smiles dazzlingly, the trace of a predatory edge creeping in, as always.

 

“Good,” he grunts, posture going lax, again.  “Well, we’ve gone a bit off-subject, here, but lemme’ cut to the chase, okay Jason?  _I_ am going to help _you_ get all your disparate little fucking friends sent on their merry way back home, and _you_ are gonna help _me_ take over _both_ of these islands, in return.

 

I’ve had this plan for a while, now, but then you just fell straight out of the sky—” he illustrates his point by dragging an index finger from a point above his head and letting it descend to a point just before his chest, furthering the ‘visual aide’ with an accompanying whistle which also quickly plummets in pitch, before cutting off abruptly, “and right.  Into.  My lap.”

 

Jason raises one brow in response to the eccentric display (again ignoring the rather _strange_ tone at the end of the last sentence), absently noting its similarity to the very first time he’d encountered the other man, while still imprisoned with his older brother.  His emotions at the recollection of those penultimate minutes spent with his now-deceased older sibling are oddly dull, now: distant in a way that he should likely be concerned about.  Increasingly masterful, already, at repressing and shutting down certain parts of his ethos, he moves beyond the tangential ( _and unhelpfully emotional_ ) train of thought, as he is already working hard to muddle through the increasingly surreal moment he is living through.

 

“….and?” he eventually says, the single word’s utterance seemingly provoking Vaas into a small furor.

 

“And?  _And_ , Jason?  Really?  Think with your fucking noggin, huh?  You and me— we’re the fucking _same_.  Two sides of one fucking coin; yin and yang, and all that shit!”  Vaas thumps an open hand, solidly, against his chest, twice.  “I see the way you’ve taken to this island— how quickly you’ve made your own way and how well you take care of business, stupid as that business might be.  Shit— even the way you fight is constantly improving.  And it’s only been, what, two and a half weeks you’ve been out there?”

 

The red clad rebel leans forward so far that he seems in danger of leaving his seat, entirely, and Jason again finds his gaze drawn inexorably to those magnetic, green eyes he’s been trying to avoid meeting for the past several minutes, his heart inexplicably starting to quicken in reaction.  _Damnit_ , what the _fuck_ was going on with him, today?  Privy to none of his charge’s internal unrest, the ex-Rakyat-turned pirate continues his impassioned diatribe.

 

“Jason, the jungle didn’t eat you up, like I said it would— you fucking _became part of it_.   Don’t you see?  You don’t _have to_ go back to whatever it is you were doing before all this.  Let me help show you what you can truly be: let yourself be _reborn_.”

 

The air in the room is charged with an almost physical sort of tension, the electricity of their shared animosity coming to a head as Vaas fairly pleads for Jason to let go of perhaps the biggest part of his particular idiom: revenge against the man who had fecklessly, unrepentantly ripped away a beloved brother from him.

 

The middle Brody sibling isn’t sure exactly what he is seeking in Vaas’ gaze, but he must find it, as seconds later, almost without his being aware of it, he is shifting forward and extending one arm between them, hand loose and held open in invitation to an easily recognizable gesture.

 

His muscled torso heaving from the exertion and heartfelt emotion of his persuasive oratory, Vaas seems almost shocked for a moment, as though he hasn’t truly believed this outcome to be a possibility, but a quiet, tense beat ticks by and then the gleeful, terrifying— _genuine_ smile is back, and his own arm shoots out, digits digging firmly into Jason’s forearm in a warrior’s clasp.  The shock of pressure-pain makes him reflexively tighten his own grip on the other’s brawny forearm, and that grin goes yet more feral.  (The leer is _also_ back, it would seem, much to Jason’s continuing confusion.)

 

Vaas raises a scarred brow, somehow imperious and conspirational at once, and leans in, ever so slightly, pulling the wary man before him forward, just an iota.

 

“You know, hermano, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

 

* * *

 

 

(I'd usually use this section for a glossary/translations, but anything in Spanish seemed totally, contextually obvious, so, eh.  Y'all're probably fine, right?)

Whew. This was supposed to be about the events immediately preceding the other fic I wrote in this universe, seen [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7770709), where we see the after-effects of an extended period of time in captivity for Jason.

At that point, he and Vaas had been all but married, so I guess I wanted to explore how exactly Hoyt and co. managed rewire a person enough to essentially forget (and attempt to murder) their own spouse.

The brainwashing/reconditioning/torture fic is trapped in writing purgatory, but somehow, I expanded upon _one sentence_ in that fic, and then wrote _this_ fic that shows exactly when Jason defected from the Rakyat and tossed his lot in with his partner-to-be.

Go figure.

 

P.S.  If you're wondering what all the unspecified nerve agent was that the pot was laced with, that'd be Tabun  (that 'sweet' smelling smoke is an homage to the fact that it apparently smells "fruity".)   I sorta' picked and chose which all symptoms would be more prominent, because fic.  So when Vaas said he was glad Jason didn't shit himself?  Yeah, that's one of the possible effects of excessive exposure to Tabun.  Dude wasn't kidding.  Haha.   (When I fixated on chemical weapons/agents in my research-- which I'm  _sure_ the FBI is  _totally_ cool with-- I also found another  _very_ interesting agent that I'mma  _definitely_ have use for if I ever go into Vaas' background with Hoyt and why he absolutely fucking  _detests_ him in this series/universe. c: < )

 

P.P.S.  Speaking of one of the above points?  Jason  _did_ totally piss himself, as one of those side-effects.  Once again, Vaas wasn't fibbing when he told Jason he'd seen his undies. ;p    If you  _don't_ think he reminds his main man about this all the damn time, in the future, you must be out of your damn mind.  (No teasing, yet, since dude was worried the white boy would actually fucking  _die_ on him at any moment, especially if he didn't strip him down and get him 100% free of contamination.)

 

P.P.P.S.  Oh man.  I may have to start thinking about making a timeline/'roadmap' for this AU;  I'm super excited to see how all he ends up meeting Buck in this 'verse.  That's gonna be a trip. Hahaha.   Anyway, back to working on the aforementioned brainwashing/reconditioning/torture fic!  Toodles~.

 

___________ 

Check out my [Tumblr](https://citraisafuckboy.tumblr.com/)! c:

**Author's Note:**

> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!  
> *
> 
> It is probably obvious that I still have no beta. Eh. (Oh! Feel free to leave concrit, though, as this incipient author likely needs some. Haha)
> 
> Heck, I will love you forever if you leave me some kudos. (I will love you for _several_ forevers if you leave me a comment. ♡)


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